Worthwhile Crimes
by feathered moon wings
Summary: It's the second body they've had to throw overboard this week. No one knows he vomited for two hours after seeing the heap of flesh hit the water and drift away. His stomach twists in discomfort, there are more than a hundred slaves below deck on their way to become possessions for the highest bidder. (Very brief Beckett and some others. Rated T because, well slavey. Pre-movies.)


_Many,_ _ **many**_ _years ago…_

They never speak to him or any of the crew. They keep their heads bowed down when the guards pass by their chained bodies; the bolder ones throw hateful glances at the sailors when they can. He can deal with that, people hating him is nothing new.

They may never speak to him or any of the crew, but he can hear them at night.

When Jack steers the ship on calm waters and everyone else sleeps deeply, he can hear the slaves talk to one another, never louder than the whisper of a moth's wings.

They know how to survive, hate is nothing new to them.

He doesn't know the language though at times he suspects there are more than two or three they murmur amongst themselves.

While he doesn't know what the sounds mean, he likes to hear them. He's always had a love for hearing things he doesn't understand, there's a certain charm to it.

The crew feeds them little and threaten them even worse. Those that have nothing against the slaves turn a blind eye and look towards the sea, ignoring the quiet cries and cleaning the blood that soaks the wood without much fuss.

It's the second body they've had to throw overboard this week. No one knows he vomited for two hours after seeing the heap of flesh hit the water and drift away, no one will ever know.

Jack is not heartless, though at times he wishes he were. _But he isn't_.

As the Captain of the Wicked Wench, he always gets a little more food- food that he can't stomach half of the time because _people aren't cargo_. It wont do him any good, so he walks down with excuses to check on the ' _cargo'_.

He is greeted by hateful glances the first time he goes down there, but he doesn't mind one bit. When he offers them bread and apples, small pieces of fish no one will care for, wary eyes look at him and shy tongues lick their dry lips in desire.

Hesitant hands reach out and others reach to stop them.

It's a trap- he might hit them for grabbing the food of his hand.

It's poisoned- maybe he just likes seeing them twist on the floor because of some sick pleasure.

Some can't stand the temptation and they grab the food despite the fear of never waking up, or living in pain for the rest of the trip, or receiving a terrible beating that'll render their body useless.

He intends to leave and let them enjoy their food in peace, but realizes that the minute he goes back up someone might return to keep vigil so instead, he sits by the stairs and waits for them- the crew will probably thinks he's having his way with them as he pleases.

He looks at his left: There are no cells in the boat, so the prisoners are all chained to the wall, crammed together like sardines. A slim man looks at him from the corner of his eye curiously. Like everyone else he's beaten and bruised, his dark skin marred purple and green. He smells of waste and vomit and his chains clink together when he adjusts his body.

Jack looks at the man and calls for his attention, but he lowers his head swiftly. Jack tries again, gently tapping him on the shoulder and while the man flinches, he still refuses to look up.

"Mate, do me a favour, will you?" Jack whispers conspiratorially.

Slowly, the dark eyes look up again, questioning.

"Make some sounds- like a dying bird being plucked. Pretend I'm giving you a good flogging, savvy?" Jack looks up towards the boards and the other man's gaze follows.

The slave nods in understanding and he can swear the black man is hiding a smile.

He makes some splendidly believable sounds and after a moment the woman by his side joins him.

He doesn't smile, though some of the slaves do, the fact that they can perfectly produce the sounds of being beaten while the weaker eat brings him no pleasure. It makes him want to throw himself off boat, but he knows he can't. He knows -these people's treatment would be far worse if he did and another scumbag took his place. Instead, Jack sighs quietly and waits.

~.~.~.~

It goes on like this for a few weeks and soon they no longer fear to reach for his hand when he offers them food- or a bandage if things get too bad. They no longer avert their gazes from his eyes, though some still look at him with wary, hateful expressions, and he can handle hate, but there are others who offer him faint smiles.

Some whisper "Sparrow" under their breath and those who know the language mimic wings with their hands when he comes down.

None of the crew interrupt him when he's here; no one dares to disrupt the Captain who has suddenly found pleasure in the torture of the cargo. The sailors don't seem to mind terribly much.

There's not much he can do when others come down, though, and sometimes it's like nothing's changed.

While bruises bloom over everyone's skin, it's the women who have it worst, even though he has a straight policy of such activities being forbidden, and Jack can't very well say he knows the crew's been breaking this rule without revealing himself.

The journey is almost over, they're about to reach land and the infamous Lord Cutler Beckett. He's torn. Once, he had rejected a slaver ship from him and now Beckett had tricked him into transporting humans to be sold. Another misstep would be his doom, no matter how well they've worked together in the past, of that he has no doubt.

He rests against the wheel and looks at the sky. There aren't many things in this life that Jack cares for beside his own hide, good drink and better woman, but his heart still aches. There was never a thought process or an evolution of his feelings towards the people below deck- it wasn't like he'd started caring for them. From the beginning, it had never been anything but the fact that this was all so _wrong_.

The only question is: what does he value more, his own skin or the lives of the hundred living, breathing humans below his deck?

His sense of self-preservation hated the fact that he didn't even have to think about it.

~.~.~.~

One night he walks down the stairs.

The slaves all look grim, their dark faces tired with seasickness and resignation. They know what'll happen when they reach land.

As he reaches them, they look up to him; they have no clue for the reason of his visit. He's never come at night, never given them any reason to believe he'd be down here for anything besides bringing them what little food he can. He's never taken advantage of the women, nor has he beaten the men on a whim.

Jack can feel his face contort in a displeased frown, thinking of what he's about to do, and sits in the middle of them.

The people are instantly confused, some are even wary of this. He's always kept his distance after giving them the food, sitting on the last steps as he looked at them.

"Who speaks good English?" Jack asks quietly. A few, shy, hands are raised and there are some nods too.

"Listen good and relay what I've to say to the others when I'm gone."

He says only what he believes to be of absolute importance; Tells them their options and the consequences, speaks a little about freedom and punishment, and says fewer words for himself.

He can keep course and hand them over like cargo to Lord Beckett, where they'll be sold like apples. They'll live the rest of their lives as slaves, but there would be somewhat constant food for most of them and a roof to sleep under.

Or, he can release them into the sea close to a shore when everyone's asleep. Some might not make it to land because of exhaustion and they'll be chased like animals for what's left of their miserable lives, but they'll be free of master so long as they avoid recapture. The consequences of being caught are not pleasant to talk about. When he's finished explaining their options, he leaves them to whisper amongst themselves. Two nights from now, he'll return to hear what they have decided.

~.~.~.~

He knows it's the right choice but he can hardly eat a bite, his stomach churning with anticipation and terror. He hadn't the heart, nor the right, to tell them his own fears. He'll be caught after this, there's no doubt about it, and just the thought of the consequences he'll be facing has him feeling like there's a rope around his throat, slowly tightening with each breath.

He vomits one more time before falling asleep, his dreams bring him no more peace than his waking thoughts.

~.~.~.~

In the days leading up to their answer, he eats nothing of his rations. [Doesn't sound good. Try something like, In the days leading up to their answer, maybe?] If they say yes, they'll need the strength more than him, and if he eats it will only come right back up- that's a waste no one can afford. At night Jack gives it all to them and drinks himself into oblivion.

When the night comes, he walks across the deck quietly, rolling his eyes at the sleeping night vigil and making a note to put the lazy sod back in his place when he's finished bellow.

He descends to the hold and there's something different in their dark brown eyes- something akin to hope. Jack knows what their answer is. He sighs quietly for his doomed ass but offers them a mischievous smile. It feels like a true eternity since he last smiled.

~.~.~.~

It takes him no time at all to come up with a plan, it's fool proof- made by a fool for fools. By tomorrow night, the Wicked Wench will be missing one hundred slaves.

He gathers the crew to celebrate- in the morning they're going to reach land and this has been a job well done.

"Crack the rum open, boys! Drink to yer' hearts content!" He shouts, and the sailors cheer.

They drink and sing words all night long, until the words become only melodic slurs and one by one, they all fall into a deep, drunken sleep.

When he's sure that they're all out for the night, and vaguely worries that he might have killed one of the lightweights, Jack takes the keys from the guard. There's a waver in his steps, he had to drink his share too, but it's nothing he can't handle or anything _too_ out of the ordinary

It's a slow process, getting everyone's chains off. It makes them decide it's best not to wait for each other, in case something goes wrong at least some of them might get out.

A few men and women stay behind to help those who are badly hurt. Jack says nothing, though he wishes they would go and save themselves, but his heart tells him their intentions are good.

The waters are still as one by one, they descend the ropes and wood, sinking into the sea. They can already taste their freedom.

Jack straps a short plank of wood to a young girl that can hardly stand; it'll help her float as her self-appointed companions push her towards the coast.

Far away, he can see the shadows disappear into the grand expanse of water heading towards the beach.

"Sparrow." One of the men whispers and grabs his sleeve without hesitance, tugging at it and motioning to the water. He whispers a few more words Jack can't understand, but he gets the gist of it.

"That's not how it works." Jack smiles bitterly at the man, pulls away gently his writs. He can tell the man doesn't understand his words but the meaning is quite clear: Jack won't be coming with them.

After a few seconds the soon to be ex-slave nods his resignation and climbs down the wooden walls. He gives Jack a last look, crossing his hands and flapping them like wings, he slides into the cool water and disappears from sight.

"No time like the present." Jack nods to the last three slaves- two men and short, yet obviously strong older woman- with the intent to hurry them along, but they don't move.

The woman steps closer to him and places her hand on his chest. Her eyes are old and resigned, but grateful. She nods her head to him and he returns the gesture without really knowing why, then she steps back and one of the men approaches, making the same gesture as the woman.

Finally, they descend to the waters and suddenly, everything is silent. The waves rock the vessel gently; there is no wind tonight. A few snores break free from time to time, but Jack no longer hears the gentle whisper of words he doesn't know the meaning of, or the silent whimpers and sobs of people trapped below deck.

He sighs heavily and the knot on his chest loosens as he walks towards his quarters and for the first time since this trip started, he sleeps deeply dreaming of nothing at all.

~.~.~.~

"Where is my cargo?"

Cutler Beckett is the picture of a contrasting landscape, his body taut with cold fury, while his gray eyes burn into Jack's black wrathfully.

No one makes a sound as the two men face off, their civil tones doing nothing to fool the crew. They watch with bated breath, as though waiting for the fuse of a canon to burn out and the shot to be fired.

"The only cargo aboard this ship was that of dry fruit and woven baskets. Aside from the crew and some other people that decide to unboard along the way, there was no other cargo." Jack says in a calm, serious tone and only a faint quirk on his lips.

"We had an accord, Captain. This sounds like treason." Lord Beckett tries again, his patience bout to snap. "One last chance. _Where. Is. My. Cargo_?"

There is a tense silence as Jack ponders the other man's words. He stares out to the sea for a moment, before finally meeting his cold blue eyes.

"Yes, we had an accord," Jack agrees, a sudden calmness overcoming him. "And I would've upheld my end of the barging if you had upheld yours. You said I was to bring you cargo. It was not cargo that awaited me at the docks."

And just like that, the fuse reached its end and the canon is shot. Cutler Beckett looks as poised as ever though.

"Guards!" The soldiers march and stand by their Lord, waiting "Take this sorry excuse of man away, we have a pirate on our midst!"

His blue orbs burn into Jack's back as they haul him from the scene.

"We all know the fate of a pirate."

~.~.~.~

As they drag him across the docks and through cobblestone streets, the fear and nausea that had assaulted him on the voyage returns to Jack. But there's something different about it- the tightness in his chest is gone, every breath he takes feels free though the reality is that he's far from it

He takes one last wishful look at the sea.

When they make him kneel beside the fire, the soldiers restrain him. They pull his head back by his long hair and stretch his arm out across the log, holding it taut as the branding iron warms in the flames. He struggles with all his might, but it's not enough; not even his clever mind can get him out of this.

When they press the iron into his skin, he howls like a dying animal.

When they throw his body into a cell, he sheds silent tears when the guards are far away.

There is no comfort to be found in the stillness of his cell, but the moon does caress his sweaty forehead as he waits for his sentence.

Still, he regrets nothing but the missed chance of cracking Beckett's perfect nose.

That night he dreams only of the sea. How curious that, for months nightmares had assaulted him when he was safe in the lovely arms of his ship, yet now that he was a prisoner mere hours away from execution, there is nothing but peace in his mind.

~.~.~.~

They chain him to his boat, the Wicked Wench tainted by his betrayal and no longer worthy of honest work.

The expanse of his skin is a painting of blues and purples on yellowed parchment. He feels a weakness in his bones he's never felt before, but his gaze is steady as he glares at Lord Cutler Beckett and listens to the mans pompous on the wickedness of piracy and the need to cleanse such scum from the world.

There's smugness in the gray eyes of the man as he descends from Jack's ship with the rest of the lawmen behind him.

His executioner lights the liquids poured on every wooden surface and fear grips at Jack's heart as the flames begin consuming his world around him.

~.~.~.~

His dark eyes sting from the smoke, his lungs burn with the effort to breath. With his last breaths Jack calls to the goddess Calypso and prays to Davy Jones to save his boat and soul.

He prays for Davy Jones to bring his charred ship back to rights and make it the fastest vessel on earth.

He yearns for his soul to belong to Calypso, that she might allow him to sail forevermore and die at sea as he was meant to.

Laying on his back his sight begins to darken, but it's not the only thing that does.

The Wicked Wrench burns in plain daylight. Her white sails dusting away and her strong masts charring to dust.

His sight is almost gone now, but his hearing is not.

A wooden clank and the step of a boot, a heavy man it would seem, echoes across the deck in an uneven walk. There's the sound of a woman's voice too, rough yet sweet.

"To make a deal with Davy Jones is like selling your soul but a hundred fold." Says the man.

"To give your life to Calypso is like binding your every breath to the waters." Says the woman.

"Would you make a deal with the devil?" The man asks.

"Aye."

Jack fades away and the world turns silent.

* * *

 **Abril: Wow, I love when you really like your own work hehe.**

 **I loved it but it DID take a lot of me, so, thanks to heaven and hell to** _ **a-bit-of-madness**_ **for being a wonderful beta and really helping with the structure of sentences and more (,:**

 **This work was inspired by the small dialogue between Jack and Cutler Beckett in the second film about Jack not delivering cargo and beautiful line of "Humans aren't cargo" and the theory that connects that to Jack owing a 100 souls to Davy Jones for making the Pearl the fastest ship.**

 **Any questions and comments feel free to leave some for me :)**


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